For all disclaimers: See Chapters 1 and 2.
Note: The previous Chapter was the end of the main story, this Chapter is an epilogue catching up with what has happened to some of the characters since-leading straight into "Operation: Falling S.T.A.R.S." since you ask.
EPILOGUE Lost Souls/June 15th 1996, the USA, Arlington National Cemetery/
On a sunny, cloudless day driven by a slight breeze that made all of the flags on display flutter open fully, the funeral of General Lucas Bassire Moralto took place a week after his death. After the formal investigation found that the General had been suffering from an extreme case of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder stemming from half a century of Warfare. The psychological impact of such life experiences could never be imagined, let alone understood, which was what had masked the symptoms of his illness as it developed over time until it was too late.
People in high places wanted all kinds of details added and subtracted from the final report, but Moralto had known a great many people during his life and was the kind of man who always left an impression, good or bad. Eventually the conflict behind the scenes reached an abrupt end when a very, very senior figure spelt out how things would be in a way which no-one dared complain about. Enough of the truth had to reach the public ear to stop nosy Reporters and Conspiracy freaks after all, but, as always, no-one said everything they /could/ have.
So many service personnel, serving, retired and barely even recruited, came to the funeral, which was held with full Military Honours, that the organisers had to hire dozens of extra staff, lay on several times more than the number of decorations and honours that would normally be required and set up a network of barriers to channel the literally hundreds-strong body of men and women by the grave without causing a stampede or chaos. With two ex-Presidents, three former Cabinet members and so many in the way of senior ranking military personnel to deal with that, alone, they took over three hours to file past and pay their respects, things were just getting worse and worse for the organisers as time went on. When they considered that, after all of the Military personnel from the three services who had come to pay their respects there were at least twice as many again left made up of civilians who had known him somehow, several of the organisers just wanted to run away and hide.
But the man who was being put in that grave would have laughed at the odds, greeted everyone by their first name, shaken hands and been ready for more at the end of a sixteen-hour day, so giving in was never an option. Besides which, anyone who fell foul of their duty where this day and this man were concerned would have been very unwise to show his or her face ever again in the same circles, so no-one dared even imagine it.
Among the earliest arrivals were those injured in action who had known him. Among these was Aaron Bradley, stuck in a Wheelchair, still swathed in bandages with his arm set in plaster and hung in a sling. Barely recognisable, he was escorted by two Nurses who checked the state of his medication via IV lines constantly and regularly. Despite his bindings he had managed to sling his uniform jacket over his shoulders and his cap on his head, marking himself as an Army Engineer. He managed a steady salute with his good arm somehow as he was slowly wheeled past the grave.
Chris Redfield came some time later, walking slowly but steadily on his own two feet with stitches on his scalp where some of his hair had been neatly shaved off. After a week in Military Hospital being patched and stitched back together, he had been passed as fit for light duties and had promptly been placed under intensive investigation by the Military Police accused of Insubordination, Disobeying a Direct Order, breaking Regulations and a variety of other Charges. All of them together would have put a major dent in his Service Record but shouldn't have gotten him kicked out of the Air Force, only he had heard on the grapevine that was exactly what the Prosecution was pushing for-and was likely to get…
Funnily enough, he found the thought really quite relaxing. With his memory of his last mission a nightmare blur that, just sometimes, cleared enough to wake him up screaming at night, he got the distinct impression that there were a great many things he wasn't being told as people seemed to breathe a sigh of deep relief when he confirmed that he had almost no recollection of events. Worse, with Moralto dead by his own hand, with an explanation Chris wouldn't accept, the old lure that had initially drawn him to the Air Force was just no longer there. He no longer had the drive, the need or the reasons he once had to be where he was, so getting out now honestly suited him. He wouldn't Quit, that implied he'd accepted defeat or had done something wrong, but he wasn't going to pull out all of the stops to fight back, either…
As he walked away from the grave, he caught sight of a lone figure partially concealed by a stand of trees about twenty metres away from the solemn, ongoing hustle and bustle. Tall, darkly dressed in a flowing black dress and shoes, with long jet-black hair falling down and loose over her shoulders, sapphire blue eyes shining in a face of exquisite perfection with tawny skin only highlighting her fine features beneath the suns shadowed light. The most beautiful woman he'd ever even seen… Serena. He hadn't seen her in the week since they'd got back, she'd never come to visit him in Hospital. He'd hoped she'd be here, now she was…
Without hesitation, he turned on his heel and strode towards her.
Y
Serena Baccarin had...problems with being seen in public, even by people who might just know who she was, all linked to her profession, so she tended to avoid public places wherever possible. The funeral of General Moralto, however, most definitely qualified as an exception, so she'd made the effort and even managed to wear a dress. That /thought/ was almost scary, she couldn't remember the last time she'd gone out "casually" not wearing something she could either move freely in or use as a weapon...
She silently said a Prayer to a God she didn't believe in asking him to take care of the old man soon to be put in the ground, then she saw Chris and felt a smile creep across her face. He spotted her, turned and came straight for her. Her smile took over her face and made her eyes shine, she felt an unfamiliar quiver in her chest and actually had to think to realise what it was. She'd well and truly fallen for the young man and now her body was letting her know... Oh, this was /such/ a bad idea...
Chris Redfield walked up in front of her and gave her the full once-over. He smiled, reached out a hand and brushed a stray hair away from her face, tucking it behind her ear. She didn't feel the need to break his wrist, rip his arm off or snap his fingers one by one... That almost terrified her by itself. Her /brother/ rarely dared get that close to her anymore and he /knew/ he was in no danger, yet Chris had reached out to her as though it was the most natural thing in the world and run a light caress over her face. He didn't set off /any/ of the multiple, often lethal alarms in her mind and body built into her over the years to not only allow her to survive, but thrive in her chosen profession. What did that mean? Was she in /Love/ with him?
"You heal fast" commented Chris, his tone light, teasing. Her injuries were already either gone or faded to the point that you had to stare hard to find them, all of the stiffness and headaches she'd suffered from after her return had vanished. Her bruises were fading fast, she was as good as healed even including the stab wound in her side. Something to be glad of...
"Its part of my job description. Sorry I couldn't come and see you at the Hospital, but I thought that you could use some rest and if I /had/ you'd have been debriefed by the FBI, CIA and NSA just to begin with" replied Serena. That said, she looked at him, then stepped forwards and pulled him into a close embrace. His uniform wasn't thick enough to stop him feeling every curve and firm, warm line of her body pressing against his, nor her dress thick enough to prevent his muscular frame pressing into hers. She pressed her face into his shoulder and ran a hand through his hair in a slow caress that made his heart rate triple. "I missed you, though..." she added, very quietly.
"I could talk all day about how good it is to see you again, Serena, but I wouldn't do you justice. How about, instead, I take you out, buy you a good meal, get you drunk and then take you home so we can have some proper desert? I make killer ice-cream Mousses of any flavour, coffee so strong it melts cups /and/ saucers and can whip up a cake I call "Death by chocolate" in two hours. My treat, I insist" said Chris, taking her right hand and kissing it like a gentleman would-he hoped.
Serena smiled, then actually laughed. The sound was soft, sweet and reminded Chris of all kinds of pleasures, her throaty, full laugh encouraging him to remember the more...sensual ones. Svelte, sensual, smart and /SO/ drop dead fantasy-is-too-weak-a-word beautiful that he felt like pinching himself to make sure he was actually awake and alive when he looked at her, let alone touched her... He was either going to regret this for the rest of his life or die laughing like a loon. He really /did/ hope that it was the latter...
"Done. Just don't get distracted or overdo it, I have a swimming pool and a king-size bed back at my place and if I don't scream down the Heaven's /AFTER/ we've attended your place, well... If we don't wake up so tangled together we have to share a Shower I will /NOT/ be impressed. Clear?" said Serena, a glint in her eye and a look on her face he couldn't identify.
He didn't swallow, he retained that much self-control somehow, even though it took a supreme act of will to prevent his knees from buckling at her words. Every fantasy he'd ever entertained seemed to get burnt right out of his mind at just the /thought/ of what she was suggesting. "Done" he managed to say, despite a throat and mouth that were suddenly dryer than the Sahara Desert.
"Good" replied Serena, shifting to link her right arm through his left. "Shall we? We've both paid our respects, after all... Oh, and Chris? Keep this under your hat, I /mean/ it, but its Baccarin, Serena Baccarin..."
/August 17th 1996, the USA, New York/
The final Verdict had, no surprise, been a Dishonourable Discharge from the Air Force. He honestly didn't care-in fact, it felt like freedom, he felt like he was floating free on the wind, finally cut loose of the restrictions of Military life, just over a month since the papers were formally served... Of course, where he was and who was with just might have had something to do with that.
The Bacchae Nightclub in New York was an underground rave centre where people came to try, and do, anything and everything, especially at night-like now. Drugs, Herbs, Sex, Pain, even Magic in the form of Voodoo and a variety of Fertility Rites from every culture and system of belief in the whole wide world. Turn and step forwards at the right time in here, you could find anyone, do anything. Everyone in here wanted to do something they'd never done before and they were willing to do pretty much anything, pay any amount to get that thing. He'd seen at least two big-name celebrities he knew in here so far, one male one female, one of them had been looking decidedly nervous...
None of that mattered, the only drug, pleasure, poison or person he needed right now was right /here/ in front of him. Even as thunderous music blasted out from loudspeakers and shook the whole building, denting the eardrums of everyone there as every shade of light in the spectrum flashed everywhere and anywhere. Even as so many scents, sights and sounds drifted across his senses that he couldn't hope to identify, as a striking female dancer jumped on the bar and started stripping off, obviously so drunk she didn't even know what she was doing, he /knew/ that for a solid, absolute /fact/.
Dressed in torn jeans, worn old black trainers and nothing else, his bare chest on display even as sweat from incredible heat-the place /was/ literally underground, after all-slicked down every part of his body to the point that he would have slipped through the hands of the most determined female admirer, of which there were /several, he just smiled. There was only one woman he wanted and he could hold onto her with his own two hands, thank you very much...
Serena Baccarin, wearing an off-the-shoulder strapless black vest that bared her midriff, skin tight leggings and knee-length soft leather boots of the same colour, needed no introduction. Her hair down, loose and wild, her eyes bright, wild and alive, a little cleavage on display beneath a top she seemed almost destined to slip right out of, a silver Ankh on a silver-black chain around her neck... With her slinky, sensual dance moves, phenomenal natural grace and agility and a breathtaking beauty that challenged the eye to absorb... Even totally devoid of makeup and jewellery, which she didn't need, every eye in the place was on her. She truly was a Goddess, she could and would have eaten alive and spat out in pieces anyone there if so inclined. /But, she only had eyes for him. Not men, not women got even a moments attention beyond an instant recognition of where and what.
He couldn't match her, couldn't come anywhere near close, but he /knew/ he was the one who'd be taking her home tonight. That was the only simple truth he needed. Tough on anyone who couldn't take that in. If there was /one thing/ Chris knew, it was that no-one owned Serena Baccarin. /She/ chose /you, or she didn't, there were no grey areas.
Even the servers on the bar were staring at her over the woman on their bar now down to her underwear who was pouring alcohol and ice cubes all over her breasts. That woman could have pulled a gun and started shooting, no one would have noticed until hit. "Magnetic" was too weak a word for the effect Serena was having on every man and most of the women in the Bacchae...
He didn't have the words or the imagination to even /begin/ to describe what the Hellcat he was sleeping with was like in bed...
He finally registered the Mobile on his belt was ringing, with some irritation. He snapped it open-his eyebrows rose when he saw Barry Burton's number. He glanced back at Serena, mouthed "Got to take this" and winked. The look she shot him would have made a Saint have second thoughts, but he laughed and shook his head, holding up the fingers and thumb of one hand to show he'd be quick. She shook her head, tossing her mane of hair behind her, then gave him a slow, predatory stare that spoke of all /kinds/ of things to come that very nearly made his heart give out at just the possibilities. With a wink he literally ran out of the club, almost bowling over several revellers on the way, one of whom yelled and took a shot at him he ducked under, not missing a step.
He got outside in less than a minute, shouting for Barry to hold on over the deafening roar of sound. It was almost as warm outside, the humidity made him sweat even more and the temperature made him feel as though he'd stepped back into Iraq without pause for thought. He put the phone to his ear, almost able to hear, and spoke. "Sorry, Barry, little noisy here. What was that?" he called. Too loudly, unknown to him.
"I'm not deaf yet, Chris, tone it down. What I /said/ was you are in New York, yes?" asked Barry, his deep voice rumbling over the line like distant thunder. Chris almost forgot just how big Barry Burton was sometimes, six feet tall and almost two hundred pounds made up of muscle and bone on a massive frame, but every time he heard his old friends voice he remembered very clearly.
"Yes, sure am, at a bit of a loose end since the Air Force gave me my walking papers and told me where to shove it. I'm here with...someone special. Why? Something up?" replied Chris, his hearing slowly returning to normal as he stayed away from the incredible noise inside the nightclub. Serena's hearing was much sharper than his, he wondered just how she was managing in there... Perfectly, come to think of it, if he knew her at all. He did, too, at least a little after two months together, even though they'd hardly spent every waking hour together just talking or doing stuff.
"Kind of... Look, Chris, I might just have a very pleasant surprise for you. Could you drop by the S.T.A.R.S. International HQ shortly? Say, tonight if possible?" asked Barry, a request that made Chris's eyebrows shoot up. S.T.A.R.S. weren't the kind of organisation that issued casual invitations to their HQ, even when you were a close long-term friend of a senior officer like Barry. Being called there at this hour made him wonder if his Sister, Claire, had called the man she almost regarded as a "big" big brother to complain about this mystery woman in Chris's life and the fact that he was no longer employed but seemed in no rush to get a new job. He hadn't broken any laws that he could /think/ of...
He turned a little to help him think with a new perspective-then caught sight of the two bodies on a car in the back car park, one atop the other, the lower one a very attractive blond with healthy curves revealed by the fact her top was around her shoulders. That was bad enough, but by the time he realised that the brunette was a woman too he'd worked out just what they were doing. He turned so sharply that he almost fell over, sure that the heat from his face would melt the phone in seconds.
"Sure, but can I bring a friend?" he managed, his voice strangled as he shut his eyes and tried to forget the sight of soft curves and lips...
Y
Serena Baccarin knew how to have fun, properly, no matter what anyone thought of her. She could dance the moon down and the sun up, beat the best at any contest of moves, drink anyone under the table and could even hold a tune if she put her mind to it, although she'd never claim to be a real singer. Things she wouldn't do, though, included doing a Striptease, trying any incapacitating drug-with her conscious mind cut out of the information chain it could have unimaginable consequences-and casual sex up against the nearest wall with some beefy idiot who saw a sexy young woman alone on a dance floor.
That was why she was pinning the big man who'd annoyed her to the floor in a kneeling position by his nose, twisted in such a way that a fraction more pressure would snap it before she rotated it entirely around and ripped it off of his face. He was in so much pain he couldn't even move, or do anything more than moan, but she could see in his watering eyes than he knew exactly how much shit he'd dropped himself in by grabbing her breasts from behind and treating them like play dough without even a by-your-leave. He was going to be lucky if he walked out of this place, let alone left it able to write or even close his fingers.
She ignored the part-curious, part morbid curiosity stares of the few men and women watching and applied even more pressure, blood rising in his cheeks as it started to run down his face from his nostrils. She just grinned broadly where he could see her face, then leaned in very close to his ear so that she wouldn't have to shout. "Apologise..." she whispered into his ear, her tone of voice suggesting that it would be a very healthy decision.
He didn't do anything but whimper in pain, tears and blood mixing as they ran down his face. He was literally shaking in pain and physical strain, he was going to pass out if she pushed much harder-or he thought he was. She had some expertise with these things, so she knew better.
"Apologise" she said again, not whispering this time, instead hissing it into his ear like a venomous snake. She twisted that bit harder, blood began to flow freely down his face from his nose rather than the slow drips of before. He almost screamed, but couldn't, it hurt too much. He would have collapsed, but her grip didn't change at all and he stayed upright. He started to make incoherent noises of suffering, then seemed to try to say something.
She leant in so close that his lips almost brushed her cheek. In another world she'd have sliced his lips right off for getting that close, after gluing them together first probably. She heard him hiss something, leaned in even closer, twisting just that little bit more... "I-I-I'm s...sorry..." he finally managed to whisper. She let go and he collapsed like a sack of potatoes, utterly helpless and less than half-conscious.
"There now, that wasn't so hard was it?" she said, staring down at the mans limp form in nothing but contempt as appreciative whistles and claps sounded from around her. She only just registered them, before she saw Chris coming towards her. He jerked his head, outside, something had obviously come up. Oh well, she couldn't help but think. That jerk had ruined the atmosphere anyway...
Chris retrieved his worn white T-shirt from the lockers and slipped it on before they stepped outside. She hadn't brought anything she wasn't wearing or carrying already, a Pager, a Mobile and her wallet, so she had nothing to collect. They went outside, passing two men unconscious and already stripped naked, everything on them of value stolen, lying dead to the world in the gutter, before turning towards a road to a slightly more respectable part of town, a place where you could actually find a Cab or Bus rather than burnt-out wrecks. She shot a quizzical glance at Chris, but he just motioned for silence and glanced around them. She took the hint and said nothing.
They passed a group of men and women, all clearly high on a massive combination of drugs and alcohol, dancing around a metal barrel with a fire burning in it. She suspected that not all of them would survive the night the state they were in. Grunting and moaning coming from two different alleys involving at least six different voices she could make out made one wish for a lack of imagination as weak streetlights allowed glimpses of skin, blood and clothes. They even passed one man covered head to foot in animal tattoos and what looked like blood who appeared to be swearing his Soul to Satan. Well, it was a free country and she was pretty sure that Devil worship wasn't illegal, whether you were insane or not given the look in his eyes...
They finally crossed to the main street and began looking for a Cab even as Serena gave Chris a long look. "Alright, Chris, spill it. What's happened and where are we going?" she asked, raising an eyebrow even as she casually took his hand in hers. It /still/ felt weird to be able to do anything like that so casually...
"S.T.A.R.S. International Headquarters in central New York, I got an interesting phone call from an old friend that gave me the idea. That a problem for you?" Chris replied, signalling a Cab which completely ignored them and drove by at speed, much to his evident irritation. Serena hid a smirk, no-one ignored /her/.
"No, S.T.A.R.S. is completely off the grid as far as I'm concerned, I could do the Tango with you in the lobby for an hour and no-one would care who I was. But Chris? Its 23:49 by me, so just who the Hell are we going to see at this hour? No-one who knows I'm alive wants me dead /that/ badly and you know, what...half a dozen people in Law enforcement who are ex-Military or associated elements?" said Serena, waving down a Cab which stopped so sharply that the tires smoked. Male driver, had to be...
"Barry Burton, used to be SWAT in LA until he moved to S.T.A.R.S. after eight years on the job as one of the best back in '90. I met him on domestic manoeuvres with the Air Force when we trained to team with S.T.A.R.S. units in '94 in case we were ever required to support a special "Police Action" on US territory for Counter-Terrorism duties. Get a few beers in him and he lightens up no end, great fun to be around too. Has a wife and two young daughters who keep him well and truly down to Earth, mind. One of the best, I'd do anything for him" said Chris, as they got into the taxi and he gave the driver the address. The swarthy Caribbean man just grinned, displaying several empty holes where teeth used to be, leered openly at Serena, then hit the gas so hard it felt like the back of the car was falling off before they suddenly moved, fast.
"Sounds like I'd like him..." said Serena, even as the Cab weaved in and out of late-night traffic like they were playing a computer game in high speed pursuit. Most people would have just held on for dear life or cried at the lunatic pace and style, Serena looked as though she was having a blast and Chris was used to jets which travelled at hundreds of miles an hour casually. Neither of them did anything but sit back, relax and wait for the ride to end.
S.T.A.R.S. International Headquarters had armed security guards on all the doors with access to a literal arsenal of weapons and orders to shoot to kill. As long as it was on-premises no charges could be pressed, both Chris and Serena knew that, due to the unique nature of the S.T.A.R.S. organisation. Completely international with accepted jurisdiction and authority in dozens of countries where it literally acted as a Paramilitary Police force for most it was, like Interpol, allowed to operate under special Charter and conditions that defined, very clearly, what it could and could not do. One of the accepted articles of its Charter was the right of members to use lethal force in the line of duty, which included defence of any of its facilities against any attackers and intruders. Trying to just walk in could literally get you shot, so Chris and Serena were very glad that Barry Burton was waiting outside to greet them when they arrived.
Six foot tall, almost two hundred pounds of muscle and bone with very little fat set about a physically massive frame that dwarfed Chris's, a man with huge shoulders and heavy muscles that spoke of extensive workouts, Barry Burton was a giant of a man who looked like he could bench-press four Chris's without much trouble. With his thick flame-red hair and neatly trimmed beard, at the age of thirty-six, Serena couldn't help but think he put one in mind of the old tales about giants who walked the mountains with huge iron clubs battering unwary travellers... But, dressed in dark-blue jeans, black trainers, cream shirt and brown leather jacket, that was where the thought stopped. Especially given the warm and welcoming smile on his friendly face...
"Chris! Good to see you again... Bloody Hell, pardon my French. Who's this Angel and where does she hail from?" said Barry, walking forwards with long, steady strides and pumping Chris's hand enthusiastically, his vice-like grip turning Chris's hand into hamburger even as he drank in the alluring vision that was Serena Baccarin. His eyes were a luminous green traced with darkness, like emeralds in the shadows of night, the kind of eyes which told Serena he'd seen a great many bad things in his time, some /very/ bad, maybe /too/ many... It was a good thing that no-one could ever tell anything from her expression, or her eyes, unless she wanted them to, her eyes cool diamonds, her face immune to shock. He reminded her of her, in the sense that she might have ended up this way in another world...
"From Hell, Barry Burton, and she's called Serena, lets just leave it at that. Now, you called, we came, so what's up?" replied Serena, her posture relaxed. Despite the fact that she looked almost as though she was dozing, she'd already run through ten different ways to take out all three men without a shot being fired, nine of which ended with them all dead. The last one left Chris behind, but she didn't ever want to do that... Did she?
"I like you, Serena, your as blunt as Chris can be and your straight to the point. Lets go upstairs, there's someone you should meet..." replied Barry, with a slight shake of his head as he took them inside.
The person Chris was there to meet was Captain Albert Wesker of the Racoon City S.T.A.R.S., as it turned out, and he had an offer to make after several suggestions made by Barry which were backed up by people Chris would never have imagined cared in the Air Force. It led to Chris's recruitment into the S.T.A.R.S. organisation proper, after which he attended the Academy to learn basic through to advanced Police skills to add to his existing knowledge and skills. A year later, Chris gained his wings as a full-fledged S.T.A.R.S. field agent and was assigned to his first post and proving ground, Racoon City, under his recruiting officer, Captain Wesker.
Despite various Cases successfully investigated, solved and Closed over the following year, the first Major Incident Investigation Chris Redfield was ever involved in was the "Cannibal Murders" Case when the outskirts of Racoon City became plagued by vicious attacks where the victims were partially consumed by their, apparently human, attackers. He never thought to call a woman he was slowly drifting away from, since their drastically different schedules made it so difficult to keep in touch, to ask her opinions...
/August 18th 1996, the USA, Washington D.C./
Enough money can buy anything, even the hearts and minds of true patriots, dedicated Scientists and Doctors of every speciality who should and do know better. It could buy the use of facilities the US Government couldn't even admit existed, the silence-permanently if necessary-of any official who might be or become interested in certain places, names and actions and the loyalty of anyone who ever wanted a family-or had one. Enough money could make the truth go away forever and open every door there was while shutting down everything that might ever even possibly get in the way of what was required...
William Birkin was a man who felt he had good reason to know this simple truth. He'd worked for Umbrella since 1969, when they'd recruited him while he was still in University at the tender age of nineteen, then put the gifted and brilliant young Scientist to work on designing a variation on a radical new Virus, recently discovered, that could be used as a Bioweapon. The Virus's original creators were dead, so no problem there. It repaired the human body, as well as any other form of life it was tested on, right up to re-growing lost limbs and making one better than new? Tricky, but not impossible.
With ample test subjects, time and all the resources he'd ever need, he'd set to work. He'd had sporadic successes-in the Vietnam War in 1970, for example, when the US Air Force had had to drop tons of explosives and defoliants on a test area to finally destroy the mutant strains created when a "Wildfire" experiment had gotten so completely out of control that a full team heavily armed with flamethrowers and explosives had simply disappeared under it-but now, finally, he was /almost/ there. In '92 he'd finally created a mutant strain, classified as the T-Virus, or "Test" Virus, that could mutate test subjects in controlled conditions without risk of contamination without extreme physical intervention, such as physical injury. Now he'd almost perfected the massively superior G-Virus, or "God" Virus, a true mutant with /real/ potential, he just needed a year or two more to finish it. Of course, if Spencer really was watching him as closely as he was increasingly convinced he was, his increasing paranoia was more than worth the sleepless nights. It was /his/ and /no-one/ was taking it away from him...
He looked up at the ten foot tall by four wide transparent armoured glass Stasis tube in front of him in the Umbrella lab, set up with the most advanced tech available in the middle of the Umbrella HQ in the USA, in the capital of course, entirely behind closed doors and blank walls. The tube was filled with a light blue liquid that held in place the slowly drifting humanoid inside it, a nude man with an oxygen mask over his whole face who was Comatose at the minute, all of the scars from his recent battles still very evident.
He glanced at the Patients notes-Mickey Andrew Webb, thirty-five years old, Special Forces soldier with the US army. In superb physical and mental health. Exposed to Umbrella-designed Steroids by Professor Robert Creig which had permanently altered the functions of certain of his vital organs and stopped his heart three times before finally purged through aggressive treatment. The steroids had kept him alive despite multiple fatal injuries for long enough to allow him to be repaired by /real/ Surgeons Umbrella kept specially for their unique skills. The Orders form was clear-they still wanted to know what to do with him.
Dressed in Doctors scrubs, white overcoat and immaculate black shoes, his brown eyes glinting with intelligence and suspicion even as his brown hair showed traces of grey at the edges, at forty-six years old Birkin-or Doctor Birkin, as he preferred to be called-looked like what he was, Umbrella's top Scientist and go-to man for anything to do with Biologicals, weaponised or otherwise. Everyone knew that, everyone, but still they watched him far too closely...
"Well, William? Any change?" said the one man in the facility who would dare refer to him by his Christian name. Of course, there was little that Albert Wesker would not dare, or do.
Sometime Captain of the elite Paramilitary Police organisation the Special Tactics And Rescue Squad, or S.T.A.R.S.. Sometime senior Consultant and Security Division officer for White Umbrella, the Umbrella Corporations Covert Action Division which operated Projects best described politely as illegal, Wesker was a man who wore many hats. Captain of the Racoon City S.T.A.R.S., he was also second in command regarding Security for the whole city area, which included Umbrella's primary covert research facility, the Hive. His responsibilities ranged from containing any accidents which occurred to dealing with unfortunate witnesses to procuring subjects for experiments and making sure no-one was missed, ever.
At the age of 36, Wesker was a solid six feet of lean physical power and grace. A full head of ice-blond hair and penetrating glacier-blue eyes were set about a smoothly handsome face which made him look ten years younger, although the cold, hard manner with which he treated everyone put most off even considering getting to know him-which was the idea. Wearing his normal black shirt, trousers and hard leather boots he made Birkin think of death in all the wrong ways. You could never predict what this man was going to do, he was so ruthlessly lethal it was rumoured Spencer went to him directly for certain matters solution...
"Yeah, Willy, tell us what's happening with this idiot before you start slicing off bits so that I can at least get a good look before its gone..." said the woman standing beside Wesker, a look in her eyes that Birkin didn't dare guess at the meaning of. Wesker might just actually kill him if annoyed enough, that woman would do /so/ much worse...
Her name was Lianna Styx, but most knew her better by her nickname, "Roulette", since everyone knew you risked literally everything, including your life, merely by talking to her. Five and three-quarter feet tall, about a hundred and thirty pounds of compact muscle, slim but smoothly curvy with a bone structure to die for and full lips added to swarthy, golden skin telling of Arabic blood despite an evident European appearance otherwise, Lianna Styx was better described as darkly devastating than merely beautiful. Oddly, though, her hair was a bright red-gold of the purest kind, almost never seen down and loose since it was constantly in a tight ponytail down her back.
She was /never/ seen without gold-frame sunglasses with ruby lenses that totally obscured her eyes, although only Wesker and Birkin knew why. Her eyes were totally devoid of visible features, she had no apparent iris, pupil or other normal feature. Instead, her eyes were totally Amethyst in colour, an unearthly, incredible purple that could never be adequately described. This somehow meant that she had superior eyesight to almost anyone either of them knew. The Chinese ideogram for loss under her left eye had never been explained...
Despite the fact that she was wearing the same uniform as Wesker, Security Division standard, and her evident youth-she was only in her mid twenties-she was Wesker's superior and the Agent in charge of Security for the whole Racoon City area. Wesker had over a decades more experience than she did in such matters, but unique qualifications had gotten her the job, at which she more than excelled. The fact that it was common knowledge in senior circles that she and Wesker often plumbed the heights and depths of sexual depravity for hours at a time, without pause for rest, ever, made this less surprising to some. But then, very few knew as much about her as Birkin did...
"As you know, this is the man our Retrieval team pulled out of the destroyed facility Robert Creig compromised in Iraq, his agent in fact. He is now stabilised, but has suffered major physical and mental trauma and will probably never recover fully from the effects of his injuries and the Steroids Creig used on him. He has also been permanently altered by what Creig did to him... To be perfectly honest, I don't believe that he'll get any worse or any better without further treatment, if we woke him up I'm not even sure he'd be able to move. Options are to restore his health, interrogate him, then slice him up and use him for spare parts. Chop his arms and legs off, cover him in cement, mount him on a steel pole and give him to Irons's as another "present"-" Birkin said, before Wesker interrupted him.
"Or enrol him in the Tyrant Project?" asked Wesker, without missing a beat, his lip curled as he correctly guessed where Birkin was going with his train of thought. They really had known each other for too long, Birkin couldn't help but think.
"Yes-" Birkin began, only to be cut off by Lianna this time. He would have glared at her in annoyance, but didn't want to wake up to discover his internal organs being removed from his body while he was still alive, so he pointedly didn't. Just like he didn't dare even attempt to stare at her sultry good looks, people who did had been known to reappear with eyes missing and broken fingers before now.
"That means the Hive, which leads straight back to me. I'll get it cleared, you get him there, Willy. I'll have to keep a close personal eye on this one, could be fun..." said Lianna, her lips shifting into the kind of smile guaranteed to accelerate the heartbeat of anyone under seventy. William Birkin was suddenly, again, very, very glad that he was happily married to Annette, with a young daughter, Sherry, to remember if he needed anything else to distract him from thoughts of Lianna Styx, a.k.a. "Roulette"...
Y
Albert Wesker got Chris Redfield assigned to Racoon City S.T.A.R.S. partially because of strong hints from Barry Burton, partially on Umbrella's Orders to make sure that Chris never remembered anything about Iraq. If he did, Wesker had very clear instructions on how to deal with the situation, but Chris never did, ever.
Mickey Webb was the first successful Tyrant-Class BOW created through a combination of radical surgical intervention, controlled mutation and extreme psychological conditioning. However, the control protocols were never fully established successfully and, on his release by Albert Wesker during the Spencer Mansion incident during the "Cannibal Murders" Case in late 1998 when the S.T.A.R.S. Alpha team became trapped in the Mansion while attempting to locate the missing Bravo team, Wesker himself was the first casualty of this BOW. Neither Chris Redfield or the creature formerly known as Mickey Webb recognised the other, but Webb's life was finally ended on the roof of the Spencer Mansion by Chris with an Anti-Tank Missile.
Documents detailing Webb's fate later discovered in the Paris offices of the Umbrella Corporation during Claire Redfield's abortive infiltration of the Umbrella HQ in 1999 would, when run past Serena Baccarin, only cause her to issue the statement: "Finally, a man who got what he deserved". On confirmation of his certain death, his gravestone was defaced with the words "GONE TO HELL" carved out of the stone with a chisel, completely obscuring the original inscription.
William Birkin died in 1998 beneath Racoon City after being caught in an exploding train when Leon Kennedy and Claire Redfield destroyed their means of escape after successfully fleeing the city to escape the Outbreak. The Outbreak was caused by the escape of the T-Virus into the cities water supply following a failed attack by Umbrella Assassins on William Birkin in his lab, in an attempt to steal the G-Virus he was concealing from Umbrella. Birkin injected himself with a massive overdose of the G-Virus to transform himself into a Mutant creation capable of defeating his would-be Assassins successfully, but was unable to survive the trains destruction. However, G-Virus samples were retrieved by Agent Hunk for Umbrella and a revived Albert Wesker, working with the Mercenary Agent Ada Wong and Lianna Styx, for himself.
Lianna Styx, a.k.a. Roulette, failed in all attempts to contain the Outbreak in first the Hive in 1998, then the Mansion, then the White Umbrella facility in the Arklay Mountains, then in Racoon City itself. This was all due to interference from above in the shape of Directives from the Umbrella Board of Directors and senior Scientific Personnel who wished to observe the progress of the Virus in an uncontrolled environment. She finally lost her temper when she discovered that an Umbrella Assassination Squad had caused the catastrophe in Racoon in an attempt to seize the G-Virus by force from a paranoid William Birkin, who was convinced that such an attempt was imminent and had told her so days before it occurred.
Having barely succeeded in saving her Lover, Albert Wesker, from the Spencer Mansion disaster with Trent's help, she saved his life by injecting him with the X-Virus, or "Pandora" Virus since it could heal any wound but always had unpredictable side effects. In Wesker's case the Virus apparently gave him superhuman physical characteristics. This done, she considered her options, then went rogue and accepted a senior position at Umbrella's main competitor, HCF, after recovering a sample of the G-Virus with Wesker and Ada Wong's help in the tunnels beneath Racoon City. Rumours that she abandoned Umbrella so completely because of her discovery of the true fate of Alice Abernathy, her third in Command and closest female friend and ally bar her Sister Jena Styx, a.k.a. Domino, on top of everything else, still abound.
Since Pierre Dupree's literal decapitation of HCF, when he Assassinated the entire Board of Directors including the Chairman and caused the implosion of the company as terrified staff Resigned en masse, many going into hiding, Jianna has found herself at a loose end. Her current whereabouts and actions, as are Weskers, are unknown. However, it is rumoured Jianna may be attempting to contact either the renegade S.T.A.R.S. or SOC(Special Operations Command) with a view to aiding them in their on-going War with Umbrella in an effort to deal with the Corporation once and for all.
Serena Baccarin is currently assigned to the SOC as an extraordinary Agent who is deployed to deal with threats and issues that no-one in the SOC proper can. Since the illegal internal Coup inside the US Government that deposed President Bush which was caused by the Umbrella Corporations influence, Serena has been authorised to deal with specific targets by whatever means necessary both inside and outside Government circles. This operation was initiated on the direct Order of Ian Williams, Director of the SOC.
What her actions will be now that the latest Umbrella attack has occurred, with the Biological attack on Manhattan in 2001 being blamed on S.T.A.R.S. and SOC backed Terrorists supplied with the T-Virus, is not yet known.
THE END...
/This really IS The End of the story, for those of you who have got this far. Thank you to everyone and I hope you enjoyed it. Questions? Comments? Reviews of any kind? All welcomed, including Flames/.
P.S. Serena Baccarin's full Profile is included below.
Name: Serena Liparti. (Baccarin is assumed surname)
Age: 33 (in 2001).
Gender: Female.
Nickname: Reaper.
Physical Appearance: Hair held in loose ponytail, tawny skin result of South American ancestry (Argentinean mother). Exceptionally fit and agile due to constant exercise since age of ten. Has a tattoo of a Phoenix (Firebird) over her heart, wears a silver Ankh on a black leather strap around her neck. When she chooses to dress up, she can be breathtaking. When she is carrying out business, she is simply particularly striking.
Combat clothing: jet-black halter top held by straps at shoulders, loose jacket, trousers and knee-length boots of same colour, made of Nomex weave designed to provide limited protection from fire and hard targets-knives, bullets, shrapnel, etc. Wears black combat webbing to hold her gear, i.e. variety of spare ammunition and grenades, variety of Specialist gear (see Military background).
Bio: Height: 5,11.
Weight: 130 pounds.
Eyes: sapphire blue.
Hair: Jet-black.
Race: Caucasian American/American Indian, mixed race, born in New Orleans.
Mother: Selina Abjas-Liparti, Nurse, (Born) 1945-(Died) 1986.
Father: Adam Liparti, Sergeant in US Marines, (Born) 1932-
Brother: Jonathon Liparti, Journalist, (Born) 1975-
Personality: Cold-blooded killer who lets very, very few people under her guard, ever. Friendship and romance are almost unknowns to her. She has complete and unquestioning faith in the USA itself and its values, not the government or the people she works for. So levelheaded and calm in any situation that professionals defer to her-NOTE: this is due to extreme emotional trauma suffered at 16 (see personal background). She simply does not loose her self-control, ever. Dislikes renegades and rogues from organisations like S.T.A.R.S. intensely, but understands their reasoning with cases like Umbrella. Her nickname/call sign is "Reaper" because she is so efficient a killer, if she wants someone dead or something destroyed she will simply do whatever it takes without hesitation. Very loyal to those who have earned her trust (i.e. Chris Redfield). Despite her visual distinctiveness, she can blend in in any company without difficulty due to natural talent-she would have made a superb actress.
Favourite weapon: Combat knives.
Rank: Specialist (Carries rank of Major in US Air Force).
Team Position: Sniper (Assassin to those who know).
Weapons of Choice: Special issue enhanced V-9 Snipers rifle with Silencer (see Military Background), Glock 45., 2 silenced customised 9MM Browning pistols, 2-shot holdout Magnum mini-pistol, 2 combat knives.
SPECIAL NOTE: Her gear includes tools necessary to construct basic biological and chemical weapons as well as explosives if necessary, all she needs are supplies and time.
Background: Father fought in Korean War 1950-53 in Marines from age of 18-21, Vietnam 1968-1972 from age of 36-40, saw and did things that he's been sworn never to talk about with anyone under any circumstances. Extremely patriotic, but wanted to keep daughter out of services at all costs due to understanding of consequences. Taught her Street Fighting and physical discipline techniques from age of ten for own protection.
However, at age sixteen Serena came home from school to find her mother butchered abattoir style floating in a bath full of her own blood. When medical examination revealed she had been repeatedly raped and mutilated first, father went nuts, got his old M-16 and a meat-cleaver and went looking for those responsible. When he found them, it took Forensic officers a solid week to separate the remains and clean up the scene. Father was tried for triple murder but cleared on basis of insanity plea when psychiatric reports confirmed that his wife's brutal murder had left him deranged. He was committed instead, and is unlikely to ever be released since considered a psychotic lunatic with homicidal tendencies, extremely extensive military training and experience.
Unable to cope on her own, Serena enlisted less than a year later, aged 17, with the US Air Force to escape an unbearable life-also, she'd always dreamt of seeing the world from the skies point of view. Met Chris Redfield just before he was thrown out of the Air Force in 1996 when she was assigned to the same Top Secret mission that he was that finished his career when he disobeyed orders to leave a wounded man behind. Impressed by his resilience and skills, not to mention commitment to fellow American soldiers, she dated him for a while, but the relationship drifted along after he joined S.T.A.R.S. at Barry Burton's suggestion since their careers take them in such different directions. She still considers him her boyfriend, though, and would be very happy to pick up where they left off. Should be noted, however, that he doesn't know what her job actually is, only that she does Shadow Ops exclusively and is the best shot he knows, she's never missed to his knowledge. She has met Barry Burton briefly, but he only knows the very few details Chris has told him and what she looks like. Educated to Masters level, she holds two First Class Degrees, History (aged 23) and Criminology (28).
Military History: Joined US Air Force at 17 as trainee pilot, graduated at eighteen. Age 21 referred to ETC (Exceptional Tasks Commission) after receiving Silver Star, Medal of Congress and Purple Heart having survived being shot down over Iraq despite a catastrophic systems failure preventing her from ejecting. Spent three weeks on the run behind Iraqi lines despite being badly injured before walking out of Southern Iraq into allied camp. Record of report on events post-crash pre-recovery sealed by government until 2041, but common knowledge among US Special Forces in Iraq at time that she was single-handedly responsible for triple-figure death toll among pursuers, also that she did what she had to do to survive deserts, near-total lack of food and water, marauding bands of soldiers and all other difficulties.
Recruited by ETC aged 21 and promoted from pilot to Lieutenant, taken off all official Air Force crew lists. Aged 21-25 trained in Urban and Rural Terrorism techniques and tactics, explosives, advanced combat techniques-armed and unarmed, enhanced weapons use, interrogation and extreme resistance to torture. Also trained in Ninjitsu, Krav Maga (Israeli army unarmed combat technique) and Hsing-I Street Fighting. Expert-level computer skills are a given for an ETC Officer of her position and rank, as are medical skills that allow her to perform field surgery if absolutely necessary.
Age 25 transferred to Cobra Division, top-secret Air Force Covert Operations and Wetworks unit, part of ETC, specifically intended to deal with terrorist threats to US interests outside US mainland. Unit function involves pre-emptive strikes against terrorist cells and other targets. Sent on a variety of missions aged 25-28 involving counter-terrorism activities all over world, promoted to Major at 28 and own death faked to cut all ties linking her to family, friends and service-a body was provided that is in her "grave". Since 2001 has been assigned on a permanent basis to SOC (Special Operations Command, anti-terrorist High Command) to act as Master Assassin for President, answering to Joint Chiefs and then the President only. If survives to 2004, due promotion to Colonel. No one below the Joint Chiefs can access her Dossier.
Military Record: CLASSIFIED UNTIL 100 YEARS AFTER OPERATIVES DEATH.
SPECIAL NOTE: She has never fought in a full-scale battle. However, since she joined the ETC she has logged twice the field time outside the United States soldiers twenty years her senior can boast in a great number of cases, in most cases the most downright dirty, dangerous missions one can think of. Her job has required her to live in the shadows and work among the filth for over a decade, letting her get to know all kinds of people and places. If you want to find the dirt on anyone or anything and can get to her, she can find it for you-if she trusts you.